Please Come (Holmes) for Christmas
by Wordwielder
Summary: My collection of prompts for this year's December Challenge.
1. Hot Chocolate

From cjnwriter-Hot chocolate.

"Are they still out there?" Mary asked, peering concernedly through the window, and Watson snorted.

"You do them dishonor to assume they would finish their snowmen so hastily."

"Snow_men_? When I left, it was in a _man _in the singular."

"Well, they got it into their heads to make a pair so the snowman wouldn't get lonely."

Mary laughed and leaned into her husband's side. "Will they be alright, though? It's rather frigid."

"They're all wearing coats, darling, I made sure of it," he assured her.

"Still. We shouldn't let them stay out there much longer."

Watson's eyes left the little figures patting at the snow and went to the mug in his wife's hand. "Hot chocolate?"

"Maybe," she replied.

"Enough for me?"

"Always, love," she said. "But get your own mug."

He mock sighed, kissed her hair, and padded to the kitchen.

"Leave enough for the boys!" she shouted after him.

"I won't make any promises," he called back.

**I'm so excited for this years' prompts! Leave me a review, if you would. **


	2. 1492

2. From Ennui Enigma- 1492

"In fourteen hundred ninety-two," a man bawled lustily. "Columbus sailed the ocean blue!"

"You have to admire his baritone," Watson observed.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "This is a much cheaper night opera we are we are accustomed to watching, Watson."

The man launched into the next lines, "He had three ships and left from Spain;

He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain!"

"Depends on what you define as cheap," Watson countered. "One could argue that a night in jail is more expensive than two opera tickets."

"Emotionally, physically, perhaps," Holmes said amiably. "Not financially."

"Finance seems trite right now," Watson said, flinching a little as the man hit a particularly high note. "I'd prefer to be at the opera."

"I'd prefer to have some tea at home, myself," Holmes said, leaning back on the cell wall.

"How long until Lestrade negotiates our release?"

"Given his usual smugness and the time it'll take him to tell all the other inspectors? Perhaps an hour more."

Watson groaned. The man shouted out the next verse.

"Please just kill me," Watson pled.

"Then I'd be here even longer. I must refuse, old boy."

"God save us both," Watson muttered. Holmes just nodded.

**Didn't take long for me to get behind, huh? I had some trouble with this one, but I like how it came out. Honestly, I have no clue if the 1492 song was written at this point, but hey. **


	3. Sketches

**3. From TemporarilyAbaft- Wiggins accidentally leaves a handful of drawings in the sitting room after a visit. Holmes and Watson sneak a glance…**

The door banged shut on Wiggins' goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. Undoubtedly, she had stuffed his pockets full of treats before letting him escape her clutches. Watson eyed his figure skip down Baker Street and out of sight, wondering whether the boy would accept a new coat as an early Christmas present. It was too cold for the rag he was wearing, and would only get colder.

"His eye is improving greatly," Holmes observed, turning from the mantle and sinking into his chair. "He gave me some details that I am quite sure will prove immensely helpful." He picked up a few worn sheets of paper from the sidebar and asked Watson, "Have you taken to illustrating as well as authoring?"

"Hm?"

"These appear to be sketches from the Barough case, if I'm not mistaken…that does look like the ship, does it not? And this- it's the trapdoor."

"My artistic inclinations couldn't produce a sketch that well-done," Watson said, leaning over Holmes' shoulder to examine the charcoal smudges on the page. "They must be Wiggin's. No one else has been by recently enough for us to have not noticed these before now. I say, is that us?"

"So it is."

They exchanged glances, then their eyes returned back to the sketch. It depicted the Doctor and Holmes standing by the Thames, clearly discussing something; their eyes were intent and their brows were furrowed. Holmes was gesturing with a magnifying glass, while Watson rolled a pen between his fingers.

"He's talented," Watson murmured. Holmes cocked his head and mumbled something about police sketches. Watson wondered what the boy could do with watercolors or pastels. He'd just have to make him accept a gift of art supplies as well as the coat.

**As per usual, I'm incredibly behind. I'm working on it! I hope to catch up this weekend. Review?**


	4. Poisoning

**4. From I'm Nova – Poisoning**

"You've poisoned me," Holmes choked out.

Watson rolled his eyes. "I know it doesn't taste much better than poison, but it'll fix you up. I'm worried about fluid in your lungs."

"I'm fine. I hope you realize you are hindering my investigation."

"You're ill, Holmes. Lestrade and Gregson have enough evidence to get the culprit. Now _lie down and rest._"

Holmes snorted, but closed his eyes and let sleep come.


	5. Storytime

**5. From TemporarilyAbaft - 'Dim', 'frank', 'least', 'banter', 'collage', and 'sleigh' – all used in a story (leniency on tenses and plurals; no specific order; go for it!**

"It was a dark winter night," Watson began, his voice purposefully overdramatic.

Holmes snorted. "Don't believe him, children. It was merely dim out." Watson shrugged. "Have you ever heard anyone say a '_dim_ winter night?' It doesn't have the same ring to it."

"It's inaccurate," Holmes replied.

"Stories around the fire are always more fun when _I_ tell them for this reason, boys," Watson said, rolling his eyes.

"Just trying to be frank."

"Oh, shut—I mean, be quiet, at least while I'm talking. I'm trying to tell a story."

"Carry on, carry on," Holmes huffed.

"Enough of your banter, the children want a story," Mrs. Hudson scolded.

"As I was saying. It was a dark winter's night, and Santa was loading up his sleigh to bring toys to all the good little boys and girls of the world.

"Would we get toys?" an Irregular no more than six piped up.

"Of course, boys, you've been very good this year," Watson said kindly.

"You've been very helpful," Holmes added, giving Watson a sideways look.

Mrs. Hudson added her silent agreement by passing around a plate of cookies, which were eagerly gobbled up by tiny hands.

"And Santa said to his head elf Mortimer, 'Let's get off! First stop London, England!"

The collage of little faces leaned forward, eager to hear what happened next.

"I thought we were telling them about the Mortimer Diamond," Holmes murmured to Watson.

"We are. I'm getting there.

"Funny, I don't remember Santa being there.

"Just listen to the story. You'll see, Mr. Scrooge."


	6. Jailed

6. From SheWhoScrawls - Holmes is in prison regarding an undercover case. Lestrade alerts Watson. What are their reactions?

Lestrade's note had been exceedingly to the point:

_Holmes jailed. Come immediately. –Lestrade_

I spat out my tea all over the ink and seized my coat from the hook, flying down the stairs without even a parting shout to Mrs. Hudson. I was rather used to the idea of Holmes in a cell, but ordinarily he alerted me before he committed a crime, or at the very least brought me along with him. This time I had heard nothing of any potential criminal activity, and in truth I was rather annoyed about that. I was hoping I could negotiate his release with the few pounds I had in my pocket and our friendship with the Yard.

I arrived at the Yard and scarcely had walked in before I was accosted by Lestrade and a few ragamuffin Irregulars.

"Doc!" Tobias cried. "They 'auled 'im off and we couldn't stop 'em!"

"Lestrade, please just tell me what's going on," I demanded.

Lestrade sighed. "Come into my office."

He shut the door on several indignant cries. "Get 'im out, Doc!" Martin yelled.

"Lestrade," I warned.

"He's fine. He's actually not facing any charges."

"Then why is he in jail?" I asked, my voice rising.

"He's—undercover."

"_Doing what?" _

"He's in there earning the trust of Bruiser Malaie."

"You hauled him off to jail and threw him in a jail to earn the trust of a criminal you already have?"

"We're releasing Bruiser tonight—blighter produced a solid alibi even though we _know _he's lying. We hope Holmes can win his trust enough to earn an invitation back to his warehouse, where we are certain there's a kidnapped woman and her entire fortune about to be shipped to Russia."

"And how is Holmes to earn his trust in a mere few hours?"

Lestrade grimaced a little. "Bruiser isn't so fond of the Yarders. We let Holmes rough a few up right before they threw him in with Bruiser. The rest is up to him."

"I would've appreciated hearing about this before now," I snapped. "Can I see him?"

"Not yet. I, uh, he told us not to tell you because you'd worry. The Irregulars were there when we arrested him and well, they were so upset they made me send for you."

"You mean a group of children bullied you into submission?"

"Yes, I'm afraid they did. They're terribly worried—they think we arrested Mr. Holmes out of spite. I had to explain that no, I do not want Mr. Holmes to rot in jail so I can solve cases myself."

I couldn't help it; I laughed a little before I crossed my arms over my chest and asked, "And how roughed up is Holmes, hm?"

"Just a little," Lestrade said apologetically.

"You're just as bad as he is," I reproached him.

"I say, let's not go that far! This was all his idea!"

**Not in love with how this one came out. **


	7. Crocodile Tears

**7. From Garonne - crocodile tears**

"Stop with the crocodile tears, I know it doesn't hurt so much as all that," Watson chided his patient as he adjusted the brace on Wiggin's sprained wrist.

"Ooh, but it aches in me bone, Doc."

"Be patient, and you'll get a cookie when I finish."

His tears stopped almost immediately.

"What _kind_ of cookie?"

"I think Mary's got some fresh chocolate chip cooling. Hey, now, stay still. I'm almost done." He knotted the bandage and nodded. "Alright, you're free to go. Be sure to thank Mary!"

Wiggins bounced up and started towards the kitchen, wincing as he jiggled his wrist. "I will! Thanks, Doc!"


	8. Reminiscences

**8. From Hades Lord of the Dead - An old photographs leads to reminiscences.**

"Grandpa, is this you?" Ten-year-old Iris Watson asked.

"Give me that, darling. My eyes are weaker than you're giving me credit for," John Watson chuckled.

Iris passed him a small snapshot and watched his eyes widen and then soften. "Ah," he said quietly. "So it is. That's me and Mary on our wedding day."

"Mary?" Iris inquired. Her grandmother's name wasn't Mary, it was Violet.

"She was my first wife," Watson replied. "She died, very early into our marriage, of pneumonia. We were only married for five years."

"I never knew, Grandpa."

"Oh, of course not, love. I'm not even sure your father knows. If he remembers, I wouldn't have expected him to tell you. I almost never spoke of her to the children."

"Why?"

Watson hesitated. "It's not to say she never came up. She was featured in a story or two, of course, the ones about Holmes. I just never wanted to dwell on how much I loved her simply because I didn't want the children to think I didn't love their mother—your grandmother— just as much. And also—when you love someone, and you lose them, it's very hard to talk about them without getting sad."

Iris took his hand. 'I'm sorry, Grandpa. I don't want you to be sad."

"Oh, no, darling. She died in 1894. That was long ago, before even your papa was born."

"When was papa born?"

"In 1909. He and your Aunt Alice both."

"Wow, that was so long ago!"

"Do you know when I was born, dear?" Watson teased. She shook her head, eyes wide. "1853."

"_Wow_!"

"Your papa seems very young to me, if not to you. It seems like yesterday I held him for the first time." Watson shook his head. "Look in that tin box there, dear. I should have a few other pictures from those days if you'd like to see them."

Iris scrambled up and riffled through the box, emerging triumphant with three or four more photographs.

Watson patted his lap. "Sit up here with me, Iris-girl. Let's look."

"That's you and Uncle Holmes, isn't it?"

"Ah, yes it is. Look at us! We're only….my God, I must've been about thirty at the time. We had known each other about two years then. Now, this one—" he tapped another picture, one of him in full military garb and Holmes looking at the camera with pained eyes. "I was nigh on sixty here. Still off to fight for her Majesty." He snorted.

"Who're all these people?"

"That's us at the 1887 New Year's Eve party at Scotland Yard. There's Lestrade, and Gregson…that's MacPherson there, and Jones—eager one, he was. Do you have—ah, you're holding it. See all those boys? Those are the Irregulars."

"Where's Wiggins?" Iris demanded. He was her favorite Irregular from the stories. Watson laughed. "He's right there in the center. He always was. The other boys adored him. And Mrs. Hudson's beside them—holding cookies, of course," he chuckled. "She was always trying to fatten them up."

"What night was this?"

"Christmas Eve, 1901. Look, there's your grandmother next to me."

"She's beautiful," Iris murmured, enraptured.

"She still is," Watson told her. "My, even Holmes is smiling. And look—Mycroft!"

"Grandpa, will you tell me one of your stories?" Iris asked, winding her arms around his neck.

"Which kind of story? A me and Grandma story? A war story? A Holmes story?"

"All of them," she declared.

Watson shifted her weight to his good leg. "Well, settle in, Iris-girl. I'll tell you _all_ of them."


	9. Serendipity

**9. From Garonne – serendipity**

**Serendipity: (noun) the faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.**

I am not particularly prone to sentimentality, especially during the holiday season. Watson has often teased me by calling me "Ebenezer" or "Mr. Scrooge." He frequently, then, takes the role of the overworked Bob Cratchit. For as much as he protests my theatricality, he took the role far beyond any of my dramatics when he arranged for several Irregulas and Mary to assume the roles of the Cratchit family and invited me to dinner.

"Hello, Mr. Scrooge," Watson greeted me at the door. He was dressed the most raggedly I had ever seen him.

"Watson, do stop with that."

"Come in, sir. I'm dreadfully sorry, if I had known you'd be coming we'd have prepared a finer meal."

"You invited me!" I exclaimed.

"Cratchits, we have a guest!" he called, scurrying into the kitchen where three Irregulars and three young girls I recognized as friends of my Irregulars sat looking even scruffier than usual, and where Mary was dressed in a somber, faded dress and frowned at the miniscule portions she was putting on the table.

She nodded stiffly at me. "Mr. Scrooge."

"Mary, what has he roped you into?"

"We've got a goose for dinner," she replied, gesturing to a miserably small bird on the table.

"Children, say hello," Watson ordered.

"Hello, Mr. Scrooge," they all called.

"My, mother, so much food!" Wiggins exclaimed.

"Well, it _is _Christmas," she said, fondly ruffling his hair.

"Sit," Watson urged, and I sat, astounded at the scene before me.

They spoke in lines from a Christmas Carol throughout the dinner and feigned poverty excellently. Mary sent quietly resentful but polite comments my way, and the children exclaimed at the plain meal like it was fit for a king. Alfie even threw in a very realistic coughing fit, and his "mother" rushed over to him. "Are you alright, Tim? Do you feel alright?"

"I feel strong," Alfie replied, leaning on his prop crutch.

"What the devil are you doing, Watson?" I finally demanded.

"Pardon me, Mr. Scrooge," Watson said innocently. "Would you like more goose, sir?"

I sighed. "Should I agree to let you decorate 221B, would you stop this tomfoolery?"

"Why, Mr. Scrooge!"

I narrowed my eyes. "Is that not enough for you?"

Watson turned to Mary. "Look at this excellent repast, love. You are truly a treasure. "

"I'll go to your blasted Christmas party, too."

"Mr. Scrooge—"

"And New Year's Eve!"

Watson grinned. "Alright, Mary, boys, excellent performance, you may break character."

"Really, was that necessary?"

"Oh, no," he said, smiling broadly, "but wasn't it fun, everyone?"

"I've never seen you look like that, Mr. Holmes," Mary laughed. "Now, let me bring out the rest of dinner. Luckily, we _can_ afford it."

There was a collective sigh of relief and a small peal of laughter.

"Thank _goodness_," Henry whispered to Davie. "I'm so _hungry._"

Alfie piped up as Mary set down a pot of greens, "God bless us, everyone!"

I am not particularly prone to sentimentality. I do not expect I will ever be. Yet even I can conclude, simply from the evidence, that it was serendipity that Watson and I met so many years past. He's brought a certain joy to my life, and if that deplorable episode communicated one thing to me is that he'll never stop trying to.

**This is such a loose take on the prompt, but I love it.**


	10. Author

**10. From W. Y. Traveller - A famous writer asks Holmes for help.**

"Blast," Sir Arthur Conan Doyle muttered. "What exactly did Holmes say here? Holmes? What did you tell Watson about the seventeen steps?"

"I believe it was something along the lines of 'you see, but you do not observe,'" Holmes replied.

"I haven't the foggiest how Watson tolerates you," Conan Doyle told him, typing out the sentence.

"You tolerate us both," Holmes replied.

"It's not so hard to tolerate him."

"Is that why you killed me and brought me back?" Holmes asked loftily.

"Don't make me do it again," Conan Doyle threatened.


	11. Scenes

**11. From cjnwriter - Holmes is secretly very good at sketching.**

It's something he does rarely, another distraction, another stimulant, an outlet he never speaks of. He only sketches when he's alone and his thoughts spill onto the page. The Hound of the Baskervilles, rendered in thick, wild strokes. Mary Morstan, twisting her glove anxiously in her hand—the lines delicate and light, like she. Reichenbach falls, lovely and peaceful. Moriarty and the look of wild desperation in his eyes as he fell from the cliffs. Watson standing at the altar of his wedding day, looking young and whole. Moran, aiming a gun. Watson, bleeding on the floor from a gunshot wound. The train that took Watson back to military service. Mrs. Hudson, smiling wearily and kneading bread. Wiggins, his arm slung around Alfie, whispering conspiratorially.

He has never shown another human being his work. He is aware he's talented. Yet these sketches are simply not meant to be seen. They are cathartic, and then they are put away. He has never even shown Watson, who he has drawn the most extensively and with the most variation. The sketches are his alone.


	12. Whistle

**12. From Emma Lynch - A foggy night and a high pitched whistle on Baker Street**

The sharp two-note whistle rang out through the fog, and twelve pairs of feet padded to the agreed-upon meeting spot, at the back of a familiar alley. The whistler bounced in place, greeting each pair of feet as the person they were attached to announced themselves.

"Oy, it's Mark."

"Alfie's here wif me, boss—it's Tobias."

"Fred."

"Jake."

"Luke."

"Raphie."

"Sam."

"Marty."

"Henry."

"John."

"Matthew."

"Davie."

"That's everyone, then," Wiggins counted. "Alrigh', I've called this meeting of the Unofficial Baker Street Force to discuss the urgent matter at han'. What are we getting Mister Holmes and the Doc for Christmas?"

"We ough' get Missus Hudson a little gift, too," Alfie added.

"That's righ', add 'er to the list," Wiggins agreed. "Doc, Mister Holmes, and Missus Hudson."

The boys fell into thoughtful silence.

"Can we—affor'—much?"

"Truth be told, no," Wiggins sighed. "That's part of our difficulty."

"Well—Doc likes writing," Henry suggested tentatively.

"Alrigh', where do we go from there?"

"A pen?"

Wiggins waved dismissively. "He's got that. Paper, too."

"What if we _did_ things for 'em?" Tobias suggested. "We could maybe help Missus clean or sweep for 'er."

"We can polish Doc's shoes for 'em," Matthew added.

"Mister Holmes, we could run some errands for," Luke said. "The kind we don't already, I mean. Personal, like."

"You know, Doc's always wantin' us to practice our readin' and writin'—let's write 'em each a letter offerin' 'em our services."

"That's a bully idea, Tobias," Wiggins cried. "We just need paper and a pen. We'll all write some of the letters."

On Christmas Day, the boys shyly presented Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes with each with a roughly folded letter.

"Wait—We'd like to read 'em to ya, if you don't mind," Wiggins said hastily.

"Not at all," Watson replied, handing the letters back.

"We'll start wif you, Doctor," Wiggins said, clearing his throat. "Dear Doctor John H. Watson, M.D., Merry Christmas!"

Here, he passed the letter off to Tobias. "We'd like to tell you how much we appreciate all the times you've helped us out since we've meet you." He passed the letter to Alfie, who read, "We would like to offer you one day of our services free of charge as a gift of gratitude." He looked rather proud for puzzling out "gratitude" as he passed it to Henry. "We will perform any tasks you ask of us that we are able for one whole day," Henry read, then passed to Matthew, who finished: "Have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Sincerely, The Baker Street Irregulars."

Watson looked touched. "Why, thank you, boys." Wiggins bounched forward and handed him is letter back with a pleased grin.

"Mister Holmes, you're next," Wiggins said and nodded to Luke, who read: "Dear Mr. Holmes, World's Best Consulting detective, merry Christmas!" He passed it to Jake, who read on: "We would like to offer you one additional day of our services in a more personal than professional sense, free of charge, in thanks for all your kindness in all the years of our association." With a smile, he passed it to Fred, who read: "We will perform any task you ask of us for the entirety of that day." Fred then passed it to Davie, who concluded: "Have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Sincerely, The Unofficial Baker Street Force." Davie leaned over and handed the letter to Holmes, whose face was much softer than it usually was.

"Thank you, boys," he said.

"And Missus Hudson, you're next," Wiggins announced.

Mark began, "Dear Missus Hudson, merry Christmas!" He handed the note to Ralph, who read the next line: "Thank you very much for all the food you've made for us and all the times you've patched our coats so we can stay warm." He passed the letter on to Marty, who added, "In gratitude for all your generosity, we would like to offer you one day of our services where we help you in any way you need." He gave the letter to Sam, who read, "We are not as good at cooking or sewing as you, but we can help clean and cook when you want help." He passed it to John, who finished, "Have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year! Sincerely, those street urchins."

Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and took the proffered letter from Wiggins. "Thank you, boys."

"Boys—did you write these by yourself?" Watson asked, his eyes bright.

"Ay, we did!" Ralph burst out.

"Excellent penmanship," Watson praised. The boys flushed. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "Are we ready to eat dinner, loves?"

"Yes!" came the collective shout, and little feet took off for the dinner table. The adults laughed and started to follow.

Watson held up his letter and murmured to Holmes, "Now I know where my good stationery disappeared to."

**I LOVE THIS ONE. review, please?**


	13. Bifocals

**13. From Sendai - Either Watson or Holmes need to get bifocals**

Watson frowned as the staccato sound of typing faded from the airs. "Holmes," he said uncertainly, "Would you look over this, for a moment?"

"I doubt I will be much help editing."

"Not for content…I—I can't quite see the keys."

Holmes rose from the couch. "You can't _see?_ You didn't go near the methanol formaldehyde mixture, did you?"

Watson shook his head, raising his eyebrows at his friend. "No, no. You haven't blinded me just yet. I suspect that'll come in time, though, with your experiments. The print is fuzzier than I had thought."

Holmes frowned. "Is this the first you've noticed of the, um—_fuzziness_?"

Watson twisted his mouth. "I've had to hold the newspaper closer to see the print…"

"This is a simple deduction, especially for a doctor of medicine."

"Don't say it," Watson moaned, covering his face in his hands.

"You need glasses, old boy."

"I have excellent vision," Watson said desperately.

"The 'Cose of the Mlsslng Hotbrlm' may disagree with that conclusion," Holmes retorted, pointing to the sadly mistyped title. "It's common for men to need glasses as they age, Watson."

"I had hoped I wasn't quite that old yet," Watson said sadly. "I suppose I shall have to make an appointment with an optometrist."

Holmes laid a hand on his shoulder. "The evidence all points to it."

The doctor walked through the door the following week with an uncharacteristic scowl on his face and a pair of bifocals perched on his nose.

"I look like my grandfather," he complained bitterly to Holmes, who rolled his eyes. "Really, Watson, your eyesight takes precedence over your vanity."

Watson huffed.

Six months later, Holmes squinted at the crime column, pulling it closer to his face. "The print is sadly smudged in this edition of the _Enquirer_," he remarked. "I can scarcely read it."

Watson lowered his newspaper, slid his glasses down his nose, and grinned.

"This is a simple deduction, especially for a consulting detective," he said. Holmes' eyes widened.

**I have literally no idea how the text got so very screwed up when I initially published this...I'm just as confused as y'all were. I loved writing this one, though. Also, y****ou guys are all fantastic writers, and I'm so enjoying reading everyone's responses to prompts!**


	14. Visitors

14. From Garonne - an unexpected visitor

Watson sat bolt upright in his bed, quite positive he had heard a female speak— was that _giggling_?

"Shut up, you'll wake them."

"_Ouch_! I tripped over Watson's chair."

"I gave you the map of the parlor, you ought to know where everything is!"

"You missed a step outside, _you_ should know there are seventeen!"

He reached under his mattress and pulled out his old service revolver. When he crept into the hall, e saw Holmes already there, pressed against the wall with his stick in hand. They nodded at each other and burst out into the parlor.

"Who are you?" Watson shouted. Holmes lit the lamps, and standing there were—

Both men groaned. "Not again!"

"How do you lot keep getting in here?" Holmes demanded.

The fangirls looked at each other guiltily.

"I told you we should've called ahead," one said.

The other snorted. "Like that'd have gotten us in."

"That's enough! It's 2 AM! Out!" Watson shouted.

"But—"they pled.

"OUT!" both men thundered, and the fangirls burst into tears as they were pushed toward the door.

"Maybe another time. In the _daytime,_" Watson said, and they both squealed as Holmes slammed and locked the door after them.


	15. One Too Many

**15. From Sendai - One too many (does not have to be about too many drinks)**

"Sherlock, get up," Mycroft demanded. "Mother says it's time to open presents."

"I'm coming," Holmes said, and tried to stand.

"Ach, ach, not yet," a very familiar voice commanded. Watson? But Watson…Watson shouldn't be here. This was a time before Watson. Sherlock was thirteen. It had snowed. Snow would be cold, wouldn't it? He was very hot. He had slept with the woolen blanket and gotten too warm, clearly. Perhaps he and Mycroft would go sledding after presents. He had deduced what his parents had put under the tree, but he would feign surprise for their sakes. His mother would have cocoa right when they came in and a hot breakfast waiting for him downstairs.

"Is breakfast ready?" he asked.

"I think you could handle bread," Watson replied. "Breakfast as a whole may be too ambitious as of yet."

Holmes blinked. Watson was here. That was certain. He had imagined the rest. Yet he was very hot, and drowsy as though he had just awoken.

Watson came into view, worry lines around his eyes. "You're awake," he said.

"I am," Holmes rasped out. "I was ill?"

"_Are_," Watson confirmed. "My dear Holmes, _what _were you thinking?"

"Hm?" He couldn't quite remember what Watson was talking about.

"You pushed yourself much too hard in Lyons. I talked to your landlady and she said you hadn't slept or eaten more than trifles in four days."

"You know I find physical deprivation intellectually stimulating. I've done much the same before and been quite all right."

"Just one too many case, huh?" Watson asked, clearly not convinced. "You ought've brought me along. I've been nursing you for three days, and you've been in and out the entire time. Delirious for much of it. I've only been able to get you to keep down broth. You must be famished."

"I am," Holmes admitted.

"I'll get you something a little heartier. Don't try to get up again. You almost escaped my custody at one point," Watson half-chided, half-chuckled.

Holmes pushed himself up on his elebows. Watson sighed pointedly but didn't reprimand him.

"The chase—Dogherty! Did they catch him?"

"Yes, yes, now lie down and remain calm."

Holmes obliged. "Has it snowed?"

Watson coked his head, smiling as if he were surprised. "Why, yes, it did. Last night. It's quite lovely out—not that you're going out there anytime soon."

"Ah," Holmes said vaguely. Watson turned back to the stove, choosing not to ask.

**GUYS I AM ALMOST CAUGHT UP AHHHHH. I'm having so much fun with this year's prompts :)**


	16. Thanking Stamford

**16. From I'm Nova - Thanking Stamford**

**"****I am obliged to you for bringing us together..."-****_A Study In Scarlet_**

It was perhaps six years after I first took my lodgings with Sherlock Holmes that I crossed paths with Stamford again, in the self-same laboratory he had introduced me to Holmes in, on an impromptu visitation of my old training grounds.

"Hullo, Watson," he said, smiling. "It would seem these hallowed halls welcome you just the same as always."

"I have been indulging my considerable sentiment," I admitted. "And you?"

"Much more practical purposes," he laughed. "The business of saving lives, you know."

"I am familiar," I chuckled.

"Speaking of those days, how did you get on with Holmes?" he asked, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"He can be—startling, certainly. He did not exaggerate his vices. But he tolerates mine, and I do the same. We get on quite well."

"You mean to say you're still rooming with him?" Stamford asked, clearly surprised.

I bowed my head. "I have no reason to move out. Well—perhaps it is inaccurate to say _no_ reason. But no reason I would consider worth it."

Stamford shook his head in amazement. "You seem rather fond of him."

"I suppose I am," I conceded. "He has become one of my closest friends in the years I've known him." I clasped Stamford's hand. "I must thank you again for introducing us. I am certainly obliged to you."

"I should suspect he's obliged to you, Doctor," Stamford said, his gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps I have been an instrument of fate to arrange your meeting. Eh?" He grinned.

"Perhaps," I replied. "I suspect he wouldn't like that idea."

Stamford laughed. "Well, Watson, I shall have to visit this 221B. I should like to observe Holmes in a state of domesticity."

"You might, if you enjoy a healthy dose of chaos."

"Perhaps that's why the two of you get on so well. You always were an adventurer."

"My good man, you don't know the half of it. I think I've been shot at more times in my association with Holmes than I ever did in the Afghan campaign."

"Sounds like you've got a tale to tell," Stamford remarked.

"Quite a few," I said, an idea slowly turning over in my mind.

**Do you ever get a prompt you look at and hallejuah because you just love the idea, but then you can't quite capture it like you want? THIS. Still, I like how it all came out. For reference- 1881 is year Holmes and Watson met, and a Study In Scarlet was published in 1887.**


	17. Scars

**17. From SheWhoScrawls – Scars**

Holmes made a fairly regular habit of attaining minor injuries. His frequent encounters with criminal populace of London often gifted him bruises and sprains, and the occasional knife wound. Luckily, he had never dragged himself home with a bullet lodged in his body. I had intended to garnish the tree with tinsel when Holmes entered the flat, holding a rag to a long gash on his arm.

"Would you take out your surgical thread, old boy?" he inquired.

I dropped the tinsel and grabbed my bag.

"Mervin Leibin?"

"One of his cronies. Do not worry, they have been delivered to Scotland Yard and are awaiting prosecution."

In the earlier days of our association, I might've been more irate at Holmes' utter lack of self-concern, but by this stage, I knew very well any berating wouldn't change his methods. I stitched him up as cleanly as I could; he, admirably, never even winced. His eyes were distant, lost in thought. I shook my head, aptted his shoulder, and again took up my tinsel.

A week passed, and I removed Holmes' stitches without incident. I set down my scissors and before I even reached for my bag, Holmes spoke.

"Do not trouble yourself with that salve, Watson," He assuaged, stretching out cat-like by the fire. "I find scars rather fascinating."

"That is good for you," I remarked. "You've enough of them, and more to come, I'm sure."

"One can deduce much of a person by his scars," Holmes continued. "You, for example. One could deduce much of your history with a few glances at your shoulder, your leg, and your palms. The scar across your left thumb, for example—the angle clearly suggests a scalpel cut."

"Yours would suggest that you live a life not without danger," I suggested. "And that you have an uncanny habit of testing chemicals with your own blood."

"On a basic level, yes. To the learned observer, one's scars are something of a roadmap. I should like to write a monograph on the subject. For now—would you hand me my pipe, my dear fellow?"

**GUYS, I'VE DONE IT. I'M CAUGHT UP.**


	18. Bridges

18. From cjnwriter - A bridge collapses.

It is easy for a man to get absorbed in matters of domesticity and forget that there is a world outside of his little nest. For this very reason, I was rather surprised when I answered a firm knock on my door and saw Mrs. Hudson standing with a pie in her other hand.

"Hullo, Dr. Watson," she greeted. "I had hoped you'd answer. I've brought you a treat."

"Why, thank you, madame," I replied. "Mary will be thrilled. Would you like to come in?"

"For a moment." She stepped through our doorway, nodding with approval at the small touches of femininity and warmth my wife had added to our residence. "We've missed you around Baker Street, Doctor."

"I've missed you as well," I said, rather taken aback by how true it was.

She hesitated. "My mother had a saying, Doctor, a rather peculiar one I've never heard anyone else say. 'The bridges between people collapse very easily when they stop working on them.' I thought I should pass those words to you. Mr. Holmes—he'll never admit it, but he does miss you terribly. He's been a black mood since you left. And he's much too proud to reach out to you. Don't let that bridge collapse, my dear."

I felt my stomach twist. I had selfishly forgotten that Holmes was living alone for the first time in six years. Though he has never been effusive, he is a man, and he is not emotionless. Mrs. Hudson had always had a quiet wisdom, and never more had I appreciated it.

I took the pie from her hands and answered, "I won't."

The next day I took my first sojourn back to Baker Street.

**Let's play a game called "how loosely can I work in a prompt?" **


	19. Stakeout

**19. From TemporarilyAbaft - A stakeout conducted from inside a large pine tree. Irritation abounds…**

Lestrade was not the most even-tempered of men, especially when he was forced to interact with that upstart Gregson. Add in Sherlock Holmes, and he thought he might go mad.

Oh, and being inside a hollow pine tree. There was that lovely addition.

"How did you come upon this tree, Holmes?" Gregson asked.

"To the learned observer, it was obviously it had been hollowed out," Holmes replied imperiously. He peered out his knothole and offered no further explanation. Lestrade smiled secretly. As much as he disliked Holmes' arrogance, it was always rather fun to see it directed at Gregson. "And no, Lestrade, I do not expect we shall encounter any woodland creatures."

Lestrade scowled. How the bloody hell did he _do_ that? It was unnerving.

"The squirrels should all be hibernating," Holmes said with a smile in his voice. "Not so with criminals, eh?"

"Gregson, move over," Lestrade elbowed him.

"_You_ move over."

"No, you move!"

"You!"

"You!"

Holmes coughed delicately, and both men stopped pushing at each other and looked down. When Holmes turned back to his post (why did he get the best vantage point, anyway?) they stuck out their tongues at each other and then made faces at Holmes' back.

"I suspect our men should be entering this cavern in precisely thirty-six seconds, by this view, so you may wish to put your tongues back in your mouths and prepare yourselves," Holmes said without turning around.

Lestrade took a deep breath. All he had to do was arrest the counterfeiters, then he could get out of this _tree_ and away from this buffoon Gregson and the walking headache that was Sherlock Holmes. Then he could go home and have some cocoa in front of the fire and read before settling in and going to sleep. Ah, yes, sleep.

He raised his pistol and readied himself.

**Okay, this is one of the stranger prompts I've ever gotten. No offense, of course. I tried, guys. **


	20. Relics

**20. From Domina Temporis - Dinner with Holmes is more like an exercise in how many criminal relics land in the serving dishes – what is the strangest thing Watson ever found?**

I lived with Sherlock Holmes in intervals, eventually totaling over twenty years. Holmes' alarming habit of acquiring crime relics and then leaving them haphazardly in strange nooks and crannies has left me with more than one strange anecdote to tell. When I think back to the strangest relics, I undoubtedly identify one as the most peculiar, and I cannot help but laugh with mixed comedy and horror at the circumstances in which I discovered it.

I had recently been blessed with an acceptance from Miss Mary Morstan. Our wedding was nigh, and I had procured us a small and cozy flat of our own to move into after our honeymoon. I despise packing, and had naturally procrastinated packing all of my possessions until only a few days before the ceremony.

"Holmes," I pled. "Please help me pack, old boy."

"Did I not warn you to start weeks ago?"

"Well, yes, but I neglected your warnings. Please, Holmes. Think of it as our last bonding experience before I leave."

"Our last? You'll be living here for three more days, Watson. I expect we still have some time left to spend together." His voice was curt, but his eyes softened. Holmes had never said he would miss my presence at 221B, but I occasionally _can _see and observe, and I knew he would.

I sighed. "Alright, I suppose I shall have to begin now, with our without you."

Holmes rose. "I'm merely helping to curb your sentimentality. You must pack, not just reminiscence."

"Still, I am grateful for your assistance. I'm afraid I have much more possessions than I did six years back."

"One should hope," Holmes said, his tone softer than was his usual wont.

We made a productive work of my bedroom. Holmes, true to this promise, didn't allow me much time to reminiscence. I was diving deep into the back of my closet when I pulled from the back of a dusty shelf a woman's corset, with flecks of dried red liquid all over it. My resulting shout of "_Holmes!" _made him jump to my side.

"Ah," he said vaguely. I stared at him. "Are you planning on explaining the bloody lingerie in my closet? I assure you I didn't put it there."

Holmes said, "I believe you may also come across some underskirts as well."

"And _why_, perchance, may I discover more women's underclothing in my closet?"

"These are some relics the Yard kindly allowed me to keep for further study. In 1878 I worked a fascinating case where a man murdered his wife and buried her body. He had killed her with a poker in their home, and as he was the only one home he knew he would be implicated. Therefore, he had to make it appear she died in another way the following morning, when his groom, butler, and cook were home and he had an alibi. To account for her death, he took her clothing and dressed in it to skew the evidence. That's not actual blood, Watson, it's an excellent imitation—he filled a rubber satchel with it and had the 'attacker' stab through it—see the knife slash through the fabric? He strew the clothes at the scene of the actual murder, where the blood appeared consistent with a stabbing. He might've gotten away with the crime, if I had not noticed the forced pattern of blood around where the wound ought've been. It was a clever way to misdirect the police, and I requested the clothing to further study the method."

I opened and closed my mouth. "You mean you've put on woman's underclothing and stabbed a satchel filled with fake blood before?"

"In the name of science, Watson."

"Why in God's name would you put this in _my_ closet?" I demanded.

He looked a tad embarrassed. "Fiona was ordered to clean out my room. I did not want to start a rumor mill turning."

I stared at him, outraged. "I would've been the target of the rumor mill, then!"

"No, no, she would've never gone so far in your personal possessions. She looks on the two of us differently—in that she finds me fascinatingly insane. Her curiosity would've gotten the better if her in my chambers, but she regards you as something of an open book and wouldn't have troubled herself to sift through your things." This was most likely right, though I refused to tell him that. Fiona, our most recent young maid, was flighty but well-meaning. I had conversed with her some, but Holmes ignored her, and she was in awe of him.

Besides, what would raise more questions: you having lady's underclothing in your closet, or _I _having it?" Holmes added.

"What does that mean?" I protested.

"You are engaged," Holmes said simply. "In short. You have other stories to tell as well."

"My god, Mary," I said, horrified. "If she had found that—!"

"But," Holmes cut in. "She did not. Shall we return to packing?"

"Is there anything else I'm going to find hidden in here?"

Holmes thought. "I am very nearly certain you won't."

(That proved inaccurate. Fortunately, nothing else had the power to destroy my marriage with strange implications.)

A few days later, Holmes leaned over to me at our wedding table and said, "Should you ever wish to murder your wife, I must urge you don't use the lingerie method."

"Holmes!" I reproached. His eyes twinkled. "I am merely kidding, Watson. Congratulations."

**Um...yeah, that one made more sense in my head. **


	21. Kindness

**From Madam'zelleGiry - Little acts of kindness**

My husband is a very good man. There were thousands of things I adore about him, but the quality I find most admirable in him is his kindness. Towards me, towards the little boys Holmes employed, to Mrs. Hudson, to Holmes himself, to the Yard, to his patients, to strangers—he employs the same generosity and gentility to all. It was that kindness that made me fall in love with him, perhaps beginning with some of first words he spoke to me: "_I shall be both proud and happy if I can be of any service._" Perhaps more so on the ride to the Sholto place, when he endeavored to raise my spirits with stories of his war days. Perhaps the most so when he cried out "Thank God!" when I lost my chance for fortune (of the material kind, anyway). I shall always remember the way he draped his jacket over my shoulders as we left our wedding, the flowers I woke up to the morning of our first anniversary, the quiet nights where we lay side by side and he stroked my hair until I fell into dreams. I have been a lucky woman. Even now, he offers me all he can to ease my pain. Whatever awaits me in the next world, I am grateful for the joy I have had in this earthly one. Thank God, thank God, for my John. I know I'll see him again.

**I gave myself feels...why...why did I do this to myself...**


	22. Knitted Hats

**22. From Lucilla- knitted hats.**

"I've only done 22," Mrs. Hudson fretted. "How many more are there, Mr. Holmes?"

"Watson, check the list," Holmes commanded. "I say, did I mention Charles? He's new to the game."

"Added," Watson replied. "With Charles, we only need seven more."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "And I have so much to do in preparation for Christmas Eve. Oh well! Doctor, hand me the green yarn. Mr. Holmes, my needles?"

Both men handed her the required instruments. Mrs. Hudson began knitting her 23rd knit hat for Irregulars' Christmas presents.

"Check the cookies," Mrs. Hudson instructed. "You may each have two, but leave the rest for later."

"Yes ma'am," Watson said, adding in a military salute. Mrs. Hudson hid her chuckle behind her knitting. "Off, before the cookies burn."

**Okay, in my mind there's a core group of Irregulars, and then quite a few auxiliary Irregulars who show up when Holmes need extra help but aren't around frequently. Thus the need for so many hats.**

**I'm caught back up again, so that's cool. **


	23. The Little Match Girl

**23. From Sendai - Holmes and the little matchstick girl**

_"__It was bitter cold and snowing hard, and it was almost dark; the last evening of the old year was drawing in. But despite the cold and dark, one poor little girl was still astray in the streets, with nothing on her head and nothing on her feet."_

-_The Little Match Girl, _Hans Christian Andersen, 1845

This blasted snow was nothing but a nuisance, Sherlock Holmes thought with a scowl. It had blurred all the most distinctive features of his crime scene, and what it hadn't the bumbling feet of the Yard had done its best to obliterate. The sooner he reached the warehouse, the better chance he had of recovering the thief and his bounty, and this cursed snow slowed him in even that!

He did not even see the tiny form slumped against the corner of a building until he nearly stumbled on it. He knelt and shook the shoulder of the child, a small girl perhaps eight years old, and recoiled from the coldness of her body. A match girl, see the matches in her apron—a burnt bundle in her hand, must have been trying to warm herself—why not light them before? Bruises—her father beats her, she would have been punished to use her wares herself; a neglectful mother, probably addicted to laudanum; formerly cared for by a kind maternal relative, deceased now—a grandmother, most likely; poor, badly cared for—see how inappropriate her clothes are for this weather! How thin she is!

He felt clumsily for the poor child's pulse—it was there, but only just. She was moments from death if he did not act. He stripped his coat and wrapped the child in it, cradling her to his body. She seemed to smile. _Watson. Watson will know what to do. _He was barely conscious of himself as he ran towards the warmth of Baker Street and Watson, who could surely save the child.

"Watson! Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted as he entered the flat. Mrs. Hudson popped out of her quarters and gasped. "Oh, Mr. Holmes! What should I do?"

"Warm things, madame," Holmes directed. She dove back her quarters. "I'll—cocoa," she said.

"Holmes, I am so glad you're home so early," Watson appeared at the head of the stairs. "Holmes, my God! Who is that? Is it one of the boys?"

"It's a young girl I found on Marylebone Road. Is the fire going?" Holmes cried.

"Yes- I'll throw more wood on! Bring the child up—yes, lay her before the hearth. Poor child!" Watson exclaimed. "How long has she been this way?"

"I am unsure. She was that way when I came upon her."  
>"Grab me blankets, Holmes, as many as you can." Holmes complied. Watson wrapped the child up and held her close to his body, shuffling closer to the fire.<p>

"What now?" Holmes asked, his voice anxious.

"We wait. We can only do so much now or we could send her into shock. Why was the poor girl out in this frightful weather?"

Holmes's eyes darkened. "I should like to have words with her parents, Watson."

Watson bristled. "The cruelest sort of people should so misuse a child," he declared. Holmes touched his friend's arm. No doubt his mind had strayed to his own lost child.

There was a small cough.

"She's waking," Watson exclaimed.

"Grandmother?" the girl asked, her voice weak. "God?"

"Neither, I'm afraid," Holmes answered kindly.

"Where am I?" she rasped out.

"221B Baker Street. You're safe, dear," Watson promised. "Would you perhaps like some cocoa?"

"Cocoa?" Her eyes, big and blue, widened. She tried to sit up; Watson adjusted her so she could better see her surroundings. "The goose! The Christmas tree! It's just as I saw!" she cried. "It must be Heaven!"

Holmes smiled. "I am sorry to disappoint, but you are still earthly bound. I daresay you're hungry?"

"So hungry," she replied.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes called. She burst in from where she was waiting at the head of the stairs. "I have cocoa, and I'll set an extra plate for dinner. Lamb, do you like goose?"

"I've never had it," she admitted. Mrs. Hudson stroked her cheek. "You'll have it, dearie. And potatoes, and ham, and pies, and pudding. My, those rags! I'll get you something else to wear. Poor child, poor child."

"It's so warm," the girl sighed.

Mrs. Hudson returned, with a basin of hot water in her arms, and a nightshirt of hers and a sash in one hand. "Gentlemen, I must ask you to leave for a moment so I can clean our guest up. Oh—we've neglected to ask your name!"

"Henrietta," The little girl said.

After the child was bathed and redressed, the tenants came together to eat their New Year's Eve feast. Henrietta ate as though she expected to never eat again, and they continued to pile food upon her plate until she finally could eat no more.

"Goose is _delicious_," she said.

"Selling matches isn't a very profitable business, is it?" Holmes said gently. She shook her head, and yawned.

"Should you like another means of wealth, Henrietta, I think I can find you something. In my line of work, children are invaluable resources, and I've never had a girl in my employment. One might be able to see the sort of thing my boys have never been able to infiltrate. Or should you prefer something more domestic, I think we could use help here."

"That sounds fine," she said vaguely, drooping over her now empty plate. Holmes bundled her up and laid her on his chair, where she promptly fell asleep.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said quietly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "I know you cannot afford to pay another hand on the rent we pay. Our rent shall have to rise in the New Year to accommodate this little one. I trust you have no objections, Watson?"

Watson smiled at his friend. "Not a one."

As they watched the child sleep, Watson murmured to Holmes, "Did you get your man?"

"No. But it doesn't matter," Holmes replied. "Look at the dowager, bemoaning the loss of her wealth despite all else she has. Then look here at this small soul, who had never before eaten goose. I think I chose the right one to help tonight."

Watson beamed at him. "I agree, old boy. Happy New Year. "

**Okay, Sendai, I adore this prompt. Thank you!**

**Notes: Okay, I know the little match girl is Danish. But for the prompt's sake, she's English. Also, the timing is off by like fifty years. But if we go by 1845, then neither Holmes nor Watson would be born yet. I hope this isn't too confusing if you haven't read the Little Match Girl. I would recommend reading it, though. Most of the details of the little girl's life come from there, though I embellished a bit here and there.**

**Merry Christmas, guys! I love you all!**


	24. Christmas Spirit

**From mrspencil -Christmas spirit**

Watson stopped from where he was placing the last of his gifts under the tree.

"Holmes—are you humming?"

The faint strains of "The First Noel" faded abruptly.

"No."

"Why, yes, you were! I knew you had some Christmas spirit, after all!"

"Bah humbug, Watson. Christmas spirit? I? Don't be foolish."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Very well."

A few moments later, as Watson adjusted the candles on the mantle, he saw out of the corner of his eye Holmes pick up a spare roll of tinsel and begin to add to the tree. A second later, the humming began again, very quietly. Watson smiled, and began to hum along.

"Merry Christmas, old boy."

"Merry Christmas, my dear Watson."


	25. Carolers

**25. From Sendai - The potential hazard of Christmas carolers**

It is a particular hazard during the yuletide that carolers may knock on the door of 221B. Watson delights in hearing their off-key renditions of his favorites, and may very well invite them in to partake in some tea and biscuits, ignoring my silent pleas for mercy. If he's feeling particularly cruel, he may grab his coat and my arm and fairly drag me into the choir.

"Nothing like caroling to get in the spirit," he'll remark, eyes twinkling with mischief. He knows very well _my_ opinions on carolers, but he feigns ignorance excellently.

I have had no choice but to start brewing explosive chemical mixtures when carolers knock. The sound chases all but the most resolute off my stoop, and the smoke takes care of most of the rest.

**Merry (belated)Christmas, everyone! I hope you all had an excellent day, whether you celebrate or not. Can y'all believe we're almost done with another December Challenge?**


	26. Shots Fired

**26. From Hades Lord of the Dead - Shots fired.**

"_Watson."_

"Agh!" I bolted up and nearly knocked foreheads with Holmes, who was leaning over me. "My God, what? It must be three in the morning!"

"3:17. Quite close."

"Are you here to tell me Santa's arrived?" I asked sarcastically, promptly lying back down. "It's too early for whatever it is, Holmes. Give me a few more hours."

"I suppose you didn't hear it, then."

"Hear _what_?"

"Shots were fired on Baker Street, Watson."

I groaned. "Please, Holmes, please. It is _Christmas Eve._"

"Technically, Christmas Day."

I might've expected this. The holiday season generally discourages criminal activity, and Holmes had not had a problem to wrestle with for over two weeks. He had been stalking about 221B, generally making a nuisance of himself and driving both I and Mrs. Hudson to distraction, since the conclusion of his last case. I shouldn't have expected him to react any less eagerly at the first sign of mischief he came across.

I sunk my face into the pillow. "_Alright_," I said, my voice muffled. "Give me a moment to recover."

"Bring your revolver," Holmes said gleefully.


	27. The Middle of Nowhere

** KnightFury - The middle of nowhere.**

"So you see, Watson, it is not quite the middle of nowhere," Holmes said with a small smile. "I have some neighbors, and the church and school is close enough."

"The closest estate is a half-mile off," I said, not bothering to hide my concern. "What if you are injured?"

"My housekeeper is here to mind me," Holmes replied. "Do not worry yourself, Watson."

I paused. "Pray do not take offense, Holmes, but it seems odd to me you have chosen such an isolated residence after living so many years in the midst of millions. Are you sure you won't miss company?"

Holmes shrugged. "Besides your own, I expect not."

"I'll visit often," I vowed, pleased at his admission of fondness. It was very rare for Holmes to show much affection, even for those closest to him. Holmes smiled wryly. "I will be perfectly fine on my own, Watson. I am, after all, fifty years old."

"I know," I answered. "I have faith you'll survive. I just hope you are content here."

Holmes lit his pipe and sank into his old armchair. "I believe the bees will be a fascinating devotion of my time."

His words did not quite reassure me, but I took the chair beside him and nodded as I lit my own pipe.


	28. Hopkins

**28. From mrspencil - ...inspector Stanley Hopkins has a chance to shine**

"And for his dedicated service to his fellows, his nation, and this Yard, I present Inspector Stanley Hopkins the honor of Inspector of the Year for 1895."

There was a round of enthusiastic and raucous applause, with Hopkin's fellow inspectors shouting out course encouragement.

"Oi, there's a chap!"

"Go, you little bugger!"

"We're proud of you, Hopkins!"

"Ach, can't believe you beat the rest of us!"

Holmes murmured to Watson as Hopkins took his plaque and shook the Commissioner's hand, blushing and grinning, "I can think of no one more deserving."

Watson cocked his head, smiling. He wouldn't say it to Holmes, but he found it heartwarming to see Holmes smiling like a proud papa as his protégé took center stage.

Hopkins fairly floated off-stage, and Watson grabbed his arm and shook his hand. "Congratulations, Hopkins."

"Thank you, Doctor," Hopkins grinned, still blushing. "I—I didn't expect it."

"You ought've," Holmes spoke up. "It was a clear deduction. You deserve it, my dear Hopkins. I am exceptionally proud of you."

Hopkins shook Holmes' hand enthusiastically, in fact almost painfully, but Holmes kept a small smile on. "Thank you, sir," Hopkins said breathlessly. Watson hid a smile behind his napkin. Holmes was rather like Hopkin's hero, and this was—rather cute, actually.

"Get back to your fellows, Hopkins," Holmes said kindly, sitting down beside Watson again and sipping from his glass. "And don't drink too heavily tonight, your wife has a surprise planned."

"Alright, sir," Hopkins replied, and bounded back to his table, where his mates slapped his back, roaring with pride.

Holmes lowered his glass. "Watson, I must beg you not to make the remark you're about to."

"What remark am I about to make?"

"Something about my fondness for Hopkins and how I do in fact have a heart."

"Close enough," Watson shrugged.

"Clearly I have a heart, I'm breathing."

"You're an automaton with a heart, then," Watson teased. "It's not a bad thing, old boy, to be fond of people."

"If it were, you'd be in trouble more than me," Holmes said brusquely. "You're fond of _the entire_ Yard. I've limited _that _particular weakness to one."

Watson snorted. That was a lie, but one Holmes would defend staunchly enough Watson chose to drink his ale rather than press the point.


	29. Hard Work

**29. From Garonne - hard work**

I rise at six each morning. I prepare a large breakfast for my boys, then set aside a small one for myself. I set it out for them, whether they've decided to roll out of bed or not, then tramp back downstairs to finish my meal and begin my morning routine. I clean the kitchen, wiping counters and scrubbing dishes. If it needs it, I mop the floor. Then it's over to the front parlor, which nearly always requires a good mopping, and the windows usually need washing. When I've swept and mop and washed and laundered, I sit and knit for a while, to soothe my mind, and mend the clothes those street urchins and my boys pleadingly toss my way. Then it's time to prepare lunch, if the one or both of the boys are in (usually, they come and go as a set).

After I clean up lunch, I dust, and then I take two or so hours of leisure, where I read or visit my friend Mrs. Turner, or perhaps take a walk if the day is fine. Usually, the boys are back in for teatime, and then I start work on supper. After supper I clean my kitchen up once more, and then I take some quiet moments to reflect upon the day in my journal and read my Bible before I get myself off to bed.

Of course, that's my regular duties on an ordinary day. Then there are days when I have to unexpectedly cook for one or two or ten more people, or take messages for the boys, and it seems every day I'm getting interrupted to answer the door and announce a visitor to Mr. Holmes. Then there's dealing with stray mice and children, explosions, peculiar experiments, criminal relics, shots _at my walls,_ violin music at inexplicable hours, strange noises, having strangers walk in my flat (Mr. Holmes in disguise—usually), hoping the smoke I smell is just from recreational tobacco, and trying to stomach the unfathomable mess my lodgers make of the upstairs.

Now, I am fond of the boys. For all they try me, they are very dear to my heart. But there's no denying—being the landlady of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson is hard work indeed.


	30. Fried Fish

**30. From Lucillia - Fried fish.**

"Fried fish, get good, 'ot fried fish here!"  
>I looked pleadingly at Holmes.<p>

"_No, _Watson. We haven't the time. We may have to pursue our man any minute."

"You dragged me out of the flat before I had time to eat a bite," I said reproachfully. "Now you make me wear a seaman's uniform and sit only a few meters away from a delicious smelling lunch."

"Don't be petulant, Watson."

"What's the point of being by the river if you can't indulge?" I grumbled.

Holmes looked at me quickly. "Very well," he ceded. "I have made you work to-day, have I not? Running before breakfast, surveillance, covert work. Perhaps you deserve a hot meal. Here—" he dug out of his pocket a few coins and deposited them in my hand. "Do not tarry, though, my good Watson. I suspect we shall see Struthers leave the wharf any moment with the loot."

I jumped up and saluted. "Ay, my captain. Do you want a serving?"

"Off with you," he half-laughed. "No, thank you, Watson."

I made him eat a little anyway, and we had just finished the platter when Struthers emerged, rucksack in hand, and I had to steel myself for the chase. In the fresh air, with Holmes bright-eyed and cheerful at my side, I believed I had never enjoyed fried fish more.

**Wow, only one more day left. I don't believe it. **


	31. Fluffy

**31. Domina Temporis - Fluffy**

"It's so fluffy!" Little Arthur cried, snuggling his face into the new bear. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He promptly latched himself onto Holmes' leg and hugged him fiercely.

Holmes hesitantly stroked the boy's hair with cautious, gentle fingers. "It's nothing, Arthur. Enjoy it."

"Thank you," Arthur repeated, then turned to Watson and launched into his arms. "Thank you too, Doc. It's the best present I could ever have gotten for my birthday. Everyone always forgets, you know, cos it's on New Year's Eve."

Watson hugged the little boy, and thought of the children he still hoped God would grant him. These boys were rough and course and sweet, oh so sweet, and they softened everyone they touched.

"I gotta show the boys!" Arthur exclaimed proudly, and rushed out of the flat, taking the stairs two at a time.

"My, my, Holmes," Watson said very softly. "You're—"

"Don't—"

"Getting—"

"Say—"

"Rather—"

"It!"

"_Soft._"

"I'm not soft. Mycroft is soft."

"I didn't mean _that _kind of soft," Watson said, poking Sherlock's (not soft) stomach. "I meant you're starting to be a bit human at last."

"I blame you," Holmes accused him. "Before you, emotions were trifling inconveniences easily put aside."

Watson looked at him, shaking his head and smiling. Holmes felt himself smile, too—alarmingly involuntarily. He had rarely smiled and almost never laughed as a child, and these days he found himself doing both with increasing frequency.

"Speaking of your brother, will he be along?"

"I despise you for ruining the system. I've had to see him more in the time I've known you than I did in the seven years between when he went to university and when I moved to London."

"So he will be?" Watson asked, ignoring the exasperation in Holmes' voice.

_"__Yes," _Holmes groaned.

"Mrs. H and the Yard will be here, of course. A few of our mutual acquaintances. The Irregulars will be around, I suppose. They gravitate to anything involving Mrs. Hudson's cooking."

"I cannot fault them that," Holmes replied.

"Will you allow our merrymaking, then?"

"If I must," he said mournfully.

"And participate in it?" Watson added sternly, raising an eyebrow. Holmes sighed.

"Do it for my sake, old boy."

"Why do you think I haven't already fled? Purely for your sake. I expect compensation."

"I won't groan at all the next time you wake me up before the sun," Watson offered.

"Make me promises you can keep, Watson."

"I'll make sure to spend all of the coming year on Baker Street."

Holmes started. "Was there a question of that?" he asked, his voice harsher and more afraid than he intended it to sound.

"Oh, no," Watson chuckled. "But you said one I could keep." He stepped into the parlor and sat down before his typewriter. "Besides, that's 365 more days for you to irritate me and almost get me killed. What more can I offer you?"

"Perhaps some tea," Holmes said, returning to his experiment. Watson rolled his eyes but got up to pour him a cup just as he liked it.

"Anything else, your majesty?"

"No, thank you, my good man." Holmes took the tea, sipped, and nodded in appreciation. He waited until Watson was engrossed in deciphering his notes before he said a quiet, "Thank you for spending this year on Baker Street allowing me to irritate you and almost get you killed."

"Certainly," Watson muttered absently. "Happy New Year, Holmes."

"Happy New Year, Watson."

Holmes returned to his microscope. _I _am_ certainly lost without my Boswell, _he thought.

**Well, that's...done. I'm kinda in my feels about it, honestly. I want to thank all of you- I had a fantastic time working with your prompts and loved every review you left me, and reading your original and amazing takes on your prompts. And, in the name of tradition, I'd like to offer my 180th reviewer (as I type, we're at 171, which I am ****_hugely _****excited about!) the chance to pick a prompt for my Sherlock Holmes drabble series Tales of 221B. So, you know, review and stuff. Happy freaking New Year, and a wonderful 2015 to you all. Until next time, Shelockians; the game is afoot.**

**Love,**

**Wordwielder **


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